


Noblesse Oblige

by Alethia



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Attraction, Banter, First Meetings, First Time, Journalism, M/M, Mocking, News Media, Originally Posted on LiveJournal, Political Campaigns, Politics, Snark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-27
Updated: 2009-11-27
Packaged: 2018-03-12 22:49:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3358166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alethia/pseuds/Alethia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>This</i> was not a normal day. This day existed to prove that hell was real and it came with musical accompaniment by will.i.am. On this day, Steve figured out how to get him out of the office and torment him <i>at the same time</i> by sending him to the godforsaken DNC where it was all 'we shall overcome,' oh-happy-day bullshit.</p>
<p>Which merely justified Brad's hatred of the world and everyone in it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Noblesse Oblige

**Author's Note:**

> This story is based on the fictionalized characters in the HBO miniseries, _Generation Kill_ , as written by Ed Burns and David Simon and as portrayed by Alexander Skarsgard, Stark Sands, and others. It is a work of fiction, ergo it never happened. 
> 
> For [](http://hackthis.livejournal.com/profile)[**hackthis**](http://hackthis.livejournal.com/) on her birthday. Many thanks to [](http://romanticalgirl.livejournal.com/profile)[**romanticalgirl**](http://romanticalgirl.livejournal.com/) for the beta; she's a superhero, I swear. Special thanks go to [](http://shoshannagold.livejournal.com/profile)[**shoshannagold**](http://shoshannagold.livejournal.com/); she may not remember this, but ages ago I was asking questions about Maryland's political process and she went and enabled me. Originally posted on [LJ](http://alethialia.livejournal.com/413754.html).

Maybe he shouldn't have pissed off his editor. 

Brad could play nice. Some days. If he was feeling particularly generous. The Corps certainly trained him in how to take shit without betraying that he really just wanted to haul off and deck his superior officers. If he could maintain the façade with those douches then he could certainly handle _The Washington Post_ 's Assistant Managing Editor for Investigations.

Yes, Brad most assuredly could play nice. And yet, here he was, covering the 2008 Democratic National Convention. AKA hell on Earth.

He really hoped Steve was having a good laugh because it would be his last.

Typically, the cordiality of his relationship with Steve improved inversely proportional to how much time Brad spent in the office. When he was in the office, bad shit tended to go down, like subpoenas or chairs smashed through windows or hostage situations. But that guy was fuckin' nuts; who tried to take a retired Recon Marine _hostage_?

On a normal day, Brad would be perfectly content to stay away, go cover the world falling apart somewhere, connected to his job solely through the caustic e-mails he and Steve traded. 

_This_ was not a normal day. This day existed to prove that hell was real and it came with musical accompaniment by will.i.am. On this day, Steve figured out how to get him out of the office and torment him _at the same time_ by sending him to the godforsaken DNC where it was all 'we shall overcome,' oh-happy-day bullshit.

Which merely justified Brad's hatred of the world and everyone in it. 

***

Brad lounged to the side of the stage, keeping some distance between himself and his fellow 'journalists.' He already had a headache from the non-stop cheering, screaming, crying. He'd considered taking refuge in the media pavilion, but his 'peers' there were just as bad as the crowds here. After three days, Brad was ready to chuck his press credentials and take the next plane heading anywhere but here. Hell, it'd been _more_ than three days if you counted all the pre-Convention bullshit, like that fucking joke of a media party that Steve had insisted he attend on fucking Saturday night.

Brad had made sure to be his most charming self, especially to those pathetic excuses for journalists who tried to passive-aggressively congratulate him on the Major League Baseball story. As if the fuckers hadn't all known about the bribery; God only knew what else they conveniently overlooked in their zeal to protect the liberal establishment. After the second mild-mannered ass-reaming he delivered, they'd stopped approaching him. Good survival instincts there. 

The rest of the muckrakers had given him a pretty wide berth since then, so that was the one small consolation he'd managed to wring from this goddamn waste of time coronation. He might as well be covering a local beauty pageant, for fuck's sake.

At the word "Marine," Brad's eyes snapped to the man standing at the podium, bright sunlight making him squint a little, American flag waving behind him. He looked... fucking Christ. Seriously?

He stood tall, comfortable in his dark suit and power tie—blue, naturally, everything was fucking blue here. He was perfectly at ease in front of the crowds, earnest, even. Compelling as he talked about leading a platoon in Afghanistan, his change of heart, wanting to win.

And yeah, there were some clichés in there, too, but Brad didn't focus on any of that. Because, Jesus, how the hell had they found an officer who looked like _that_ and why the fuck didn't they put him in primetime?

Oh, right, because the world was full of morons.

His iPhone vibrated; he compulsively opened another e-mail from Steve, eyes straying back to the podium every other moment.

> From: Steve Walters [walterss@washpost.com]  
>  To: Brad Colbert [colbertb@washpost.com]  
>  Date: Thu, Aug 28, 2008 at 3:42 PM  
>  Subject: Thoughts?
> 
> Anything interesting?

   
Now the man was just taunting him. Brad quickly replied:  
 

> From: Brad Colbert [colbertb@washpost.com]  
>  To: Steve Walters [walterss@washpost.com]  
>  Date: Thu, Aug 28, 2008 at 3:43 PM  
>  Subject: Re: Thoughts?
> 
> Yes. The current speaker is teaching me how to be a Marine.

   
No response to that. Likely he was too busy laughing at Brad's plight. Fucker.

Brad probably shouldn't act at all shocked that Steve sent him to the DNC. It wasn't like the literal hell was an option. And Brad had already been to Iraq and Afghanistan, anyway.

He tracked the speaker's progress as he walked off the stage, head held high, rueful smile tugging at the corners of an obscenely pretty mouth. Marine officers didn't look like that. _His_ platoon commanders hadn't looked like that.

Yet another reason to be bitter about the Marine Corps.

Brad moved in concert with the man, shoving through the press and angling himself for a better look. As the speaker stepped off the stairs a little girl excitedly trotted over, practically bouncing, all red-gold hair and sticky fingers. He swung her into his arms with a boyish grin. A woman joined him, offering a congratulatory hug, and Brad would have assumed they were the most teeth-achingly adorable family unit ever if she didn't resemble the man so strongly.

Also, he wasn't wearing a ring. Not that Brad was looking.

Brad snagged the arm of a passing photographer. Kid barely looked out of high school, but he had the sense to stare at him in sheer terror. 

Brad revised his IQ estimation up a few points. 

He took in the AP logo and didn't try for a name; it wasn't like he was looking to make friends. "What was the name of that last speaker?" Brad asked shortly. He let go since the newbie AP-kid seemed rooted to the spot.

"Um, uhh, the last speaker?"

"The Marine," Brad clarified, tipping his head toward the man where he still held the little girl, nodding in exaggerated interest as she chattered.

"Oh, uhh, Fick? N-Nathaniel Fick? It's, uhh, right here on the revised schedule," the kid stammered, tugging at a worn piece of paper tucked into his pocket.

Like Brad gave two shits about the schedule. He'd written his story in an alcohol-fueled burst of productivity late Saturday night. He'd only stayed through the week because Steve had that traitorous Concannon bastard checking on him. 

"Good to know," Brad said, then turned back to observe Fick again. 

The kid didn't move.

"Why are you still here?" Brad asked after a moment. His eyes didn't leave Fick.

"Uhh, I'll just be—bye." He scrambled away, disappearing into the ever-present swarm.

Brad shook his head. These people were as bad as the whiskey tango grunts he'd had inflicted on him in foreign climes. Hell, at least those grunts embraced their whiskey tango asshat nature. Unlike the fucking liberal media, so enthusiastically whoring itself out this week.

Maybe he'd stop and see Ray on his way back to DC. He could use a break from all the bullshit.

_Ray_ was a break from the bullshit...

Appalled at the world didn't even cover it.

***

Brad typed out an e-mail to Poke, just idly indulging his curiosity while the fucking campaign manager went on and on. Who was next? Were they gonna bring up the bus driver to talk about what an honor it was to haul his precious cargo? Maybe the maids who'd prepared his room? They surely had special insight to share with the class.

Thus Brad was not-stalking Nathaniel Fick and sending e-mails to Poke. He'd inform Steve of how productively he was using his time, but he was busy.

> From: Brad Colbert [colbertb@washpost.com]  
>  To: Tony Espera [aespera@gmail.com]  
>  Date: Thu, Aug 28, 2008 at 3:53 PM  
>  Subject: Interrogative
> 
> Ever meet an officer named Fick in Afghanistan? 

   
Surprisingly, he got a response right away. Poke must be hard at work.  
 

> From: Tony Espera [aespera@gmail.com]  
>  To: Brad Colbert [colbertb@washpost.com]  
>  Date: Thu, Aug 28, 2008 at 3:55 PM  
>  Subject: Re: Interrogative
> 
> Nate? Fuck, yeah, dog. He had his shit squared away. Used them big officer brains of his and got out before the clusterfuck of OIF. Why?

   
Brad raised an eyebrow. If Poke said Fick was squared away, then he was squared away. That was...interesting. Brad wondered why he'd never heard of him. Good officers were something to speak of, after all.  
 

> From: Brad Colbert [colbertb@washpost.com]  
>  To: Tony Espera [aespera@gmail.com]  
>  Date: Thu, Aug 28, 2008 at 3:56 PM  
>  Subject: Re: Interrogative
> 
> I'm at the DNC. He just gave a speech.

   
Brad considered the matter closed and went back to mulling Fick. Good officer, looked like _that_. Gee, what could he possibly be doing speaking at the DNC?

His phone buzzed at him. Poke being loquacious about it—shocker.  


> From: Tony Espera [aespera@gmail.com]  
>  To: Brad Colbert [colbertb@washpost.com]  
>  Date: Thu, Aug 28, 2008 at 3:58 PM  
>  Subject: Re: Interrogative
> 
> You're covering the DNC? Think I'm gonna have to send Steve a present, I just laughed so hard.

 

> From: Brad Colbert [colbertb@washpost.com]  
>  To: Tony Espera [aespera@gmail.com]  
>  Date: Thu, Aug 28, 2008 at 3:58 PM  
>  Subject: Re: Interrogative
> 
> Fuck you.

   
Brad sent it off, then checked to make sure Nate—Jesus, when had he become 'Nate' in his mind?—was still in sight. He was, giving the little girl some water, sun shining down, picking up the red in his hair. And hers. Niece? Daughter? She certainly looked like him.  
 

> From: Tony Espera [aespera@gmail.com]  
>  To: Brad Colbert [colbertb@washpost.com]  
>  Date: Thu, Aug 28, 2008 at 3:59 PM  
>  Subject: Re: Interrogative
> 
> That hurts me in my special place. Before you hit on Nate, tell him Espera says hey. Coulda used his ass in Iraq.

 

> From: Brad Colbert [colbertb@washpost.com]  
>  To: Tony Espera [aespera@gmail.com]  
>  Date: Thu, Aug 28, 2008 at 4:00 PM  
>  Subject: Re: Interrogative
> 
> You were too busy with Lilley's ass in Iraq like the deviant sodomite you are.

   
He studied Nate again, presumably holding his niece or daughter—same hair, same mouth, same chin...Brad was betting on daughter. But that was why Brad made a superior journalist. He didn't guess; he checked.

He switched over to the 'net to find out what Google had to say about the good Nathaniel Fick.

Then Poke e-mailed him again. Christ, he was as bad as Ray.  


> From: Tony Espera [aespera@gmail.com]  
>  To: Brad Colbert [colbertb@washpost.com]  
>  Date: Thu, Aug 28, 2008 at 4:02 PM  
>  Subject: Re: Interrogative
> 
> Look at all the self-hatred. It takes some skills for an upper-middle-class Republican white boy to turn himself into one of the oppressed, dog. I bow down.

   
Brad was mentally composing quite the response to that, when he looked up to check on Nate again. Nate, who now held the girl's hand while he chatted amiably with the Governor of Maryland.

Now _that_ was interesting. Brad ignored Poke and switched back to Google.

***

"For a guy covering the convention, you certainly aren't watching much of it," Nate said dryly, a respectable distance away. Brad had clocked him approaching, but wanted to see how he'd play it. Straightforward, apparently.

Brad looked up from his iPhone and met Nate Fick's eyes. Green eyes. Huh.

He raised an unimpressed eyebrow. "Have you learned anything new tonight?"

Nate shrugged and glanced at the swarm. "It's more about the experience—"

Brad scoffed and cut off the invariably heartfelt blather about being one with the community of fucktard hippie liberals. "That's what I thought."

Nate smiled, rueful, seemingly against his will. He stuck out his hand. "Nate Fick."

Brad shook, noting the firm grip. "Brad Colbert." He let the silence hang after that, watching Nate's reaction.

He simply smiled and went with it, like this was nothing unusual. They chose well; he'd make a good politician. "I've never seen the development of a stalker's fixation, figured I'd come over and introduce myself, see how that's going for you."

"Inoculating yourself against your future fans?"

"I'm kind of a big deal," Nate said, deadpan.

Oh, now it was _on_. Every single one of Brad's instincts shouted 'yes, _please_.' The last time he felt this awake he was almost hit by a town car. That only landed him a front page series and future Pulitzer. Nate fucking Fick held even more promise. 

Brad smiled, with teeth. Then he asked, pointed, "You were supposed to speak in primetime tonight. Why didn't you?"

Nate blinked at the abrupt change in topic. "There was a scheduling conflict," he said, his eyes flicking away. He was a terrible liar; he'd need to work on that.

"That's a load."

Nate's eyes snapped back to his. It was one of Brad's secret techniques: shove the truth in people's faces and gauge their reaction. Fortunately it worked as a technique because Brad really hated bullshit. Also, he hardly kept it secret. 

"Excuse me?"

"You're lying—badly, no less—so if you're planning on pursuing an oh-so-worthy career of public service, you should get better at it. Or give it up. But we both know which of those is likelier."

Nate's smile blunted his sharpness, genuine, like he was enjoying himself. He motioned for Brad to continue. "Since you know all, do tell. Why didn't I speak in primetime?"

Brad pinned him with a look. "It would put too much focus on who you are and the Governor isn't ready for that yet."

Nate's smile vanished like so much smoke in the wind.

Oh, Brad was _so_ fucking good. So unbelievably, _impossibly_ good. Fuck a Pulitzer, Brad deserved deification for this shit.

Also, Nate Fick in his bed, but he'd work up to that. 

"I can't imagine what you mean," Nate said, lying again, but at least he maintained eye contact this time.

"Better. Sergeant Espera says hello, by the way."

Nate's eyes flickered with confusion as he changed gears again; Brad watched, fascinated, wanting to sink right in. "Tony Espera?" He looked Brad over, realization dawning in those ridiculous green eyes. "You know Tony?"

"Last time I ever brought a guy over from infantry. Motherfucker finished BRC and I haven't been able to get rid of him since; that's his retribution. He's just gonna pester me for the rest of my goddamn natural life, like a giant brown parasite smuggled inside fruit from Mexico."

Nate laughed and shook his head. "You look like Recon. I should've known. Who was your platoon commander?"

"Dill."

Nate grinned; it was kind of stunning. Primetime-worthy, even. "I'll be damned. I knew him well. He was trying to get me over to Recon so he could clock in on some quality Hawaiian tanning time."

Brad took that to its logical conclusion. "You probably would've ended up my platoon commander in Iraq. The first time." And then the thought really hit. God _damn_. Invading that country under this man? They would've been fucking all the way to Baghdad. Ray would _still_ be giving him shit for seducing the jailbait LT with the cocksucker's mouth. 

But it might've distracted him from the unending well of retardation. 

"Missed opportunity," Nate said genially. 

Brad snorted. "Be glad of it; what a monumental clusterfuck that was." He eyed Nate slyly. "Though getting your Harvard JD/MBA is hardly better."

"Hey, the DA's office lets me take bad guys off the streets in America; it's good enough for me."

Brad certainly couldn't argue with that; he'd spent his time in Iraq letting the bad guys roam free.

Nate continued on, casually teasing. "Like you should talk, becoming a muckraker. What's your angle on the convention, anyway? Since you're paying such close attention." 

"Saint Obama, here to save us from ourselves and to absolve us of any choice in the matter."

Nate's expression morphed from good-natured poking into sharp knowing like _that_. " _Wall Street Journal_?" he asked keenly.

" _Washington Post_ ," Brad conceded.

"Ah. Well, there's still the RNC." He was neutral, even indulgent, like he'd allow Brad his folly because he was just that nice a guy. And yet Brad didn't want to deck him for it; he really would make a good politician, so long as he learned to lie properly.

The recognition of what Nate was doing seeped into Brad's smirk. He _let_ Nate see it. "Yes, Saint McCain, here to save us from ourselves and to absolve us of any choice in the matter."

_That_ got an appreciative smile. A too-genuine smile, with crinkles at the corners and all. "Love your job, do you?"

"It's a joy and a pleasure," Brad said crisply. His eyes dropped to Nate's mouth. 

Brad registered the woman approaching with Nate's daughter far too late. _Fuck_. 

"Excuse me," she said apologetically. "Jackie wanted her dad." The woman— not his wife; he still wasn't wearing a ring. She was, though—handed the little girl over. She promptly buried her face in Nate's shoulder. 

Brad stood there blinking at the world's sudden intrusion, the crowd's chants once again loud in his ears. It felt like a cocoon, the two of them, the only moment of stillness in this fucking madhouse week. Brad shouldn't care that she interrupted, but he did. He wanted to know what Nate would've said. He wanted _more_. 

The realization swept through him, both hot and cold.

"You're okay," Nate said softly, rocking her. His hand rubbed her small back, soothing, even as he focused on Brad again. "Brad, this is my sister, Victoria. Vicky, Brad. He's also a former Marine."

Victoria smiled and offered her hand. "A pleasure. Semper fi," she said in that awkward way of WASPy family members everywhere.

Brad half-smiled and nodded in greeting, but quickly returned his attention to Nate. "You should get back to it. Wouldn't want you to miss a scintillating moment of the action."

Nate's smile felt like a shared secret, a personal victory. Which was impossible after having known him for five fucking seconds. "We should." He nodded to Victoria.

"Nice meeting you," she said, then started off.

Nate turned back at the last moment, Jackie still snug against him. "By the way, Brad, you can't say you didn't learn anything from the Convention. This morning you didn't even know I existed." He quirked another little smile, then turned and got swallowed up by the swarm. 

Huh.

***

> From: Brad Colbert [colbertb@washpost.com]  
>  To: Steve Walters [walterss@washpost.com]  
>  Date: Thu, Aug 28, 2008 at 4:34 PM  
>  Subject: Update
> 
> Despite my assignment to cover the biggest non-news event of the year, I have uncovered a legitimate story, a 'scoop.' (You may have heard of such things.) I now know the identity of the candidate set to fill Randall's seat. Maryland's Governor is holding off on the appointment to give Obama his bounce.
> 
> As a penalty for Concannon, I'm not telling you who it is. I'll do deep-background and get it to you next week. I likely won't be in the office.

 

> From: Steve Walters [walterss@washpost.com]  
>  To: Brad Colbert [colbertb@washpost.com]  
>  Date: Thu, Aug 28, 2008 at 4:39 PM  
>  Subject: Re: Update
> 
> I'll try not to miss you too terribly.

   
***

The messiah stood at center stage, passing on the word to his swarm of waiting disciples. Cheers rang out, cameras flashed, the adulation palpable, the display garish and loud and frenzied. How easily people forgot, how easily they settled back into their role as sheep. He could practically hear the bleating.

And if he never again saw the fucking word 'change', it'd be too soon. Maybe he'd write a book about it, like Perec abstaining from the letter 'e.' 

Not that Western society was indulgent or anything. 

So Brad did the reasonable thing when faced with the future leader of the free world: he focused his attention on Nate. Jackie had one arm slung around his neck, the other waving a little American flag. In the wrong direction. Nate grinned, shifted her higher, and directed her attention toward the stage...mostly in vain. She kept sneaking glances back at him, clearly trying to carry on a conversation, though it was just as clear that Nate couldn't hear a damn thing over the roar of the crowd and Obama's amplified voice. 

They put on a good show, he'd give them that. Not a subtle show, but that hardly mattered to the crowd lapping it up. They'd probably even be able to sustain the contact high all the way through inauguration. 

But for all the pomp and goddamn circumstance, the thing that captured Brad most was Nate—the way the stage lights reflected in his eyes, made his teeth shine when he smiled as Jackie laid her cheek on his shoulder.

Brad grabbed a handy photographer—and blinked at the incongruity of going from such a luminous image to the newbie AP kid stammering at him, "What? What'd I—did I do something?"

Brad turned the kid so he was facing Nate and his daughter. "Make sure to get a shot of that."

The kid just looked back at him, other photogs rushing to and fro behind them.

"No rush; I'm sure he'll still be there in the morning when you fish your brain outta your asshole."

The kid brought the camera up and Brad could soon hear the telltale clicking of the shutter. Maybe he wasn't so useless after all.

"Why're you so interested in the Fick dude?" he asked as he lowered his camera.

"I think he's dreamy," Brad said, deadpan. He handed over his card. "Here. E-mail me those shots."

The kid took the card automatically as he studied Brad, brow furrowed, clearly not believing him. "Why?"

"Because I'll be _very_ unhappy if you don't," Brad said, straightening to his full height.

The kid gulped and nodded frantically. 

"Good. Now run along. Can't miss the confetti drop," Brad said, faux-excited.

He looked confused for a moment, but then dutifully scurried away.

Civilians.

***

Brad got up early the next morning, both force of habit and a dark desire to see the remnants of the party last night. He'd turned down no less than four offers of companionship—two women, one man, one indeterminate, none of them Nate—and knew the revelry went into the very wee hours. Hell, people might still be partying it up. It wasn't as bad as the night after a win, but people definitely let loose. Especially the Democrats.

According to Concannon, anyway. He assured Brad the RNC would be stuffy and genteel. Those might not have been the words he'd used.

The Dems were nowhere near stuffy. Brad ran by more than one reveler passed out in the grass. At seven in the morning. These were the people whose judgment he trusted, absolutely.

It was sheer masochism that had him going for a run over to the Renaissance Denver Hotel, where the Maryland contingent was staying. He didn't even know if Nate was with them. 

That should probably worry him more than anything else. And yet...

It mattered little when he spotted a familiar figure running his way. In green Marine Corps PT gear, no less. 

Nate grinned as he approached, skin flushed. He slowed his pace and then changed direction to run with Brad. "Mind if I join you?"

"If you can keep up."

Nate huffed out a laugh and paced him. He looked Brad up and down, unimpressed. "You Recon guys. Cocky cowboys didn't even cover it. With the black PT gear, watch caps...it doesn't even make sense, you realize. Black clothing traps heat. Your oh-so-exclusive PT gear is more inefficient than my olive."

"Because the United States Marine Corps is so _very_ concerned about the comfort of its men."

"Point," Nate conceded, dappled sunshine playing over him as they ran under the trees.

Jesus, this was getting pathetic. Brad needed to stop.

Instead he asked, "You're up early. No partying it up with Anne Hathaway for you?" 

Nate snorted. "I think Anne can make do without me. Partying it up and fatherhood don't exactly mix."

"To your credit."

Nate skillfully dodged a drunk rolling off his bench and regarded Brad. "I do believe that was a compliment. A rare one, from what I hear."

"Checking up on me?"

"You researched my graduate degrees," Nate pointed out.

"Undergrad, too. Classics...really? Followed by the Marine Corps?"

"What can I say? I appreciate the warrior culture."

Brad laughed aloud. He might've startled the birds with that one. After catching his breath he asked, "How's that working out for you?"

"I'm doing okay so far. And once again I reiterate: muckrakers have no room to talk." 

"There's more than one way to fight a battle. Besides, the pansy-ass liberal elite needed someone to school them in how it's done."

"Liberal elite, _right_. Tell me, has MLB banned you for life yet?" Ahh, he _had_ done his research. Brad tried to push away the sudden warmth that had nothing to do with the run.

"I eagerly await the day. And yes, the elite, when everyone knew and no one would talk about it. To stick it to them I am willing to play my part as the most hated man in baseball. Ironic considering I wasn't the one who took drugs or bribed US Congressmen, but that's the gratitude of the American public for you." 

Nate huffed out a laugh. When he got his breathing rhythm back, he asked, "What's your grudge against Congressman Randall anyway?"

"His town car almost ran over my bike. Obviously, he's the spawn of Satan."

Nate looked over at him, incredulous. "You destroyed a man's life because of road rage?"

"No; he destroyed his own life by being a corrupt fucker and getting sloppy about it. I merely reacquainted him with the notion of consequences."

And on they ran. 

Nate did, indeed, keep up.

***

Half an hour later they were still arguing. That was the wrong way to phrase it. They were still verbally jousting; it lacked the rancor of an argument. It felt...full of promise.

It felt like he'd known Nate Fick for _years_. 

It felt like he needed to stop.

They were starting to get looks, so it was fortuitous that they were back at the hotel. Brad would hate to dirty Nate's pristine reputation. Even if he would like to dirty Nate in so very many other ways. 

But he was stopping.

They'd slowed to a cool-down walk. It probably shouldn't feel like a companionable stroll, but what could he do?

Well, he could school Nate at least: "People _should_ be divided. They should disagree. These parties are not the same. They stand for different things, or at least, they used to. Talk about peace, love, and unity all you want. When you stand for something, you don't compromise."

"At the end of the day, we're one country. We have to work together or nothing will work," Nate said earnestly, all wide green eyes and sweaty, clingy green t-shirt.

Just kill him. 

Brad made a disgruntled sound. "Christ, another one who smoked the Obama crack pipe."

"I voted Republican three times before I switched support to Obama. What does that tell you?"

"You have the courage of your convictions," Brad said, dry.

It made Nate smile. Interesting, that. Normally people took offense when Brad called them on their hypocrisies. 

They'd reached the entrance to the hotel—a kind of bizarre, triangular concrete monstrosity, stark against the bright blue sky. It was just edging into that, 'well, nice arguing politics with you for an hour, have a nice life' point, when movement to Brad's left had him taking evasive action out of instinct. He didn't count on the irrationality of the input.

The input being Nate's kid and the irrationality being how she didn't so much go around him as try to go through him. Given the prevailing laws of physics, this didn't go in her favor. 

She did, however, kind of bounce off him and into Nate's legs, where she grabbed hold with an ecstatic, "Daddy!"

Victoria rushed over, right on her heels. "Sorry. She is fast when she wants something. Everyone all right?" She mostly asked this to Jackie, who ignored her completely, pressing her chin to Nate's legs and looking up at him.

"Daddy, I'm _hungry_." Said as if this were all his fault, now what did he plan to do about it?

"We'll have breakfast soon. Now what do you say to Brad?"

Jackie frowned up at him and edged around to take up a defensive posture behind Nate's legs.

"Remember, Jackie? You're supposed to say 'excuse me' when you bump into people," Nate explained, ever patient. He stepped a little ways away so he could look her in the eyes. Green eyes, just like his.

"But I'm not supposed to talk to strangers," she said reasonably.

Brad blinked down at her. And laughed aloud. 

Nate, Jackie, and Victoria looked at him in surprise. What? The kid was funny.

"You do realize how much trouble you're in if she's saying stuff like that now, right?" Brad asked.

Nate straightened as Victoria swept in with a lightweight kid's jacket, which Jackie naturally resisted. He smiled at the scene, mostly resigned. "Runs in the family. I figure, teach her right from wrong now and she'll make good decisions when I'm out of touch and uncool."

"You are either the most naïve or the most idealistic man I've ever met. I can't decide which."

"Spend much time thinking about me, do you?" Nate asked keenly, something dangerous in his voice. The same something that was telling Brad he needed to stop. 

He was doing well with that.

Jackie tugged on Nate's hand while Victoria tried to get her arm into the correct sleeve. "Daddy, is he not a stranger? That's why I have to say 'scuse me?'"

"Shocking stubbornness. I wonder where she got that," Brad said lightly.

Nate shot him a look that told him all the ways he wasn't funny, but Brad smiled anyway. 

"Jackie, this is Brad. Brad, my daughter, Jackie."

"Pleased to meet you," she said slowly, reciting it from memory, even as she pulled away from Victoria and executed a fair approximation of a curtsy.

"And you, as well, Miss Fick," he said, bowing formally.

"Excuse me," Jackie said, decisive. 

Victoria laughed a little and Nate smiled. "Thank you, Jackie. Now we can go to breakfast. Brad, you coming?" He met Brad's eyes, invitation writ-clear. 

Didn't he wish. But. Time to stop thinking and start _doing._

Brad shook his head. "Can't. Another thrilling soiree I must attend on pain of torture or expense reports. I should get back."

Nate nodded, but it felt like he was...disappointed. "Another time. Do you—should I call you a cab?" he asked, gesturing vaguely to the city.

Had he lost his mind?

Nate must have seen the thought in his face because he held up his hands, a gesture of surrender. "Right. Recon, I remember. You just run to your hotel like the superhuman devil dog you are."

Brad flashed a grin, sketched off a quick salute, and did just that. 

***

He hadn't been lying when he'd excused himself from breakfast; he did, indeed, have yet another useless media mind-meld to attend...but that hardly required his attention. Or anyone else's considering all the hung-over, lethargic, sorry excuses for journalists who showed up. Hell, they might still be drunk. Fucking lightweights. 

His iPhone vibrated. Wright's name taunted him from the screen. Brad stepped out into the sunshine, answering. "Reporter," he greeted the man.

"You know, you can't really call me that anymore seeing as you're one, too," Wright mused.

"I suppose I could start calling you Beaver Hunt," Brad allowed.

Wright sighed and it even came through over AT&T's piece of shit network. Impressive. "Reporter it is."

Brad grinned. Really, it was a mystery why anyone bothered pushing back at him. Hadn't they learned?

"To what do I owe the pleasure of a call from a person such as yourself?" Brad asked.

"What, a liberal media dicksuck?"

"Not bad. One day you might even be up to Trombley's level of insult. It'll be like watching my own child's kindergarten graduation." Brad sighed proudly.

"Is it possible you're at the DNC right now?" Wright asked instead of picking up that one.

"Stalking me, Reporter?" 

"Nah, I just—saw your picture on the 'net and couldn't quite believe it."

Brad stilled. "My picture's up on the Internet?" Somebody was gonna die; that shit was not on.

Wright sounded long-suffering. "I'll send you the link."

***

> From: Ray Person [youknowyouloverayray@gmail.com]  
>  To: Brad Colbert [colbertb@washpost.com]  
>  Date: Fri, Aug 29, 2008 at 11:01 AM
> 
> rolling stone just sent the gayest picture of you! and i thought the marines made you gay. they got nothin on the fuckin liberal media

 

> From: Brad Colbert [colbertb@washpost.com]  
>  To: Ray Person [youknowyouloverayray@gmail.com]  
>  Date: Fri, Aug 29, 2008 at 11:03 AM  
>  Subject: Re:
> 
> Ray, your hick is showing. Translate when you're done fucking the neighbor's goat.

 

> From: Ray Person [youknowyouloverayray@gmail.com]  
>  To: Brad Colbert [colbertb@washpost.com]  
>  Date: Fri, Aug 29, 2008 at 11:05 AM  
>  Subject: Re:
> 
> finished that ages ago. you know what i'm talkin about. that fuckin gay ass picture of you and some pretty cocksucker. got you smiling like he licked your ass

   
Fuck. Wright must have sent the link to everyone.  
 

> From: Ray Person [youknowyouloverayray@gmail.com]  
>  To: Brad Colbert [colbertb@washpost.com]  
>  Date: Fri, Aug 29, 2008 at 11:05 AM  
>  Subject: Re:
> 
> he's got the mouth for it, too. why you hangin' out with some twink?

 

> From: Brad Colbert [colbertb@washpost.com]  
>  To: Ray Person [youknowyouloverayray@gmail.com]  
>  Date: Fri, Aug 29, 2008 at 11:06 AM  
>  Subject: Re:
> 
> Retired Marine officer. Not totally useless. Poke says he's squared away.

   
He'd barely sent off the e-mail before his phone rang in his hand. Great.

"What?" he growled into it.

"Oh, my God! You've got a gay-ass crush on a retired Marine _officer_! This is what happens when I let you go to a cult all by yourself! You see a pretty mouth and it's all over."

"Ray, I don't know what you think you—"

"Fuck that! I know you better than anyone. They only got half your face, but you're smiling like you'd happily drop to your knees and suck him off for the world to see. Don't give me that bullshit."

Brad stayed quiet.

"Christ on a motherfuckin' cross, you would. The Iceman's gone gay." Ray laughed hysterically. 

"Ray," Brad warned. His tone might have been firmer, but Nate was walking toward him, all casual-hot in jeans and a button-down, sporting a pair of aviators and a smirk that went straight to Brad's—wait, why was Nate here?

Ray kept on mocking him terribly over the phone: "Oh, man. I'm gonna fuckin' record this moment for posterity, pass it on to all the babies who bend over for you. Who is this guy, anyway?"

"Obviously a figment of your imagination." Who had stopped in front of Brad, hands in his pockets, pretty pink mouth now quirked in a crooked grin that Brad wanted to _taste._

Jesus fuck, he was shit at stopping. 

"Fuck that. I got an AP money shot as proof, yo."

"Cease pestering me with your inane babblings," Brad said shortly. He disconnected the call.

Nate raised an eyebrow behind his sunglasses—doubtless he'd never do something so rude. 

Brad shrugged. "Go to war with someone and you can never fucking get rid of them."

"I'm awed by your magnanimity," Nate teased, pulling off the glasses and folding them into the V of his shirt. 

Nate's phone rang, interrupting Brad's musings on how desperately he wanted to shove Nate against a wall and explore that wicked little mouth of his. And his collarbones.

Nate smiled apologetically checked the screen. Then he frowned. "417 area code?"

Oh, fuck _him_.

Brad plucked the phone from Nate's hand. "I'll handle that."

Nate looked at him askance, but Brad hit the 'answer' button and said, "Ray, this is not a 1-900 number."

"You're there with him! This is worse than I thought."

"I wouldn't expect a whiskey tango, donkey-fucking, zit-crusted reprobate like you to understand the basics of human interaction, but even the Corps drilled into you that harassing superior officers is a hazard to your continued existence." Nate's lips had parted a little. Brad could see a hint of tongue.

That was just fucking unfair.

"He's not an officer anymore. Besides, I need to ask him what it's like to get drilled by the Iceman," Ray protested.

"Stop embarrassing yourself with tales of your fantasies. Leave the man alone." With that he hung up and tossed the phone back to Nate, who caught it reflexively. "If you get another call from that area code, I'd avoid it. Do yourself a favor."

Nate looked at the phone in hand, then to Brad. "Do I want to know?"

"Someone took a shot of us talking and it has the knitting club all aflutter." 

"Given our activities, your knitting club must be terribly hard-up. Unless something untoward has slipped my mind," Nate said with a sly smile. 

Brad licked his lips. "I can assure you that anything untoward would be fuckin' unforgettable."

Nate's eyes flicked down. "I am assured of this," he murmured. 

Right, but Brad was _stopping_.

And for good fucking reason. Brad cleared his throat. "When does the Governor plan to make the announcement?" he asked. As drastic changes of subject went, that was a pretty impressive one. 

Nate blinked, seemingly fixated on Brad's mouth. God-fucking- _dammit_ that was just unfair. Then he hesitated, reorienting himself; the breeze ruffled his hair a little. "They wanted to hold off a few days," Nate finally said, quiet.

"Of course they do. Give Obama the bounce off the convention, let cable news chew their way through that footage rather than offering them the fresh update to a Democratic scandal. And one that involves drugs and bribery and sports, too."

Nate's mouth tightened. He looked down, seeming to see nothing, before sucking in a breath and meeting Brad's eyes. "I know I have no right to ask this of you...but I really wish you wouldn't file the story for a few days."

Brad held the gaze. "And what do I get in return?"

Nate took a breath. "My gratitude." Simple as that.

Brad watched Nate—they probably looked ridiculous, staring at each other like this. But he was most focused on Nate's freckles, the flecks of gold in his eyes, how much he wanted to press him into the dirt and learn his body by touch, by taste.

Brad cleared his throat. He shook his head, looked away, squinting into the sunlight...then simply shrugged. "Works for me."

Nate held still for a moment, thoughts rapidly flicking through his eyes. How the hell did he expect to be a politician with eyes like those? Every thought was plain to read.

"But—Seriously?"

"What do I have, really?" Brad mused. "An unsourced story that would fuck with the Democratic nominee's convention bump. No way that gets by my editor. I work for the _Post_ , not fucking Fox News."

Nate seemed to be at a loss. "I'm sure Fox News would give you a job." He looked like he couldn't quite believe he was arguing with Brad.

"Yeah, well, their loss."

Nate licked his lips, swallowed. He took a half-step forward, aborted. "Hang on. You would really do this just because I asked?"

Brad held his gaze. "Or I could be lying and getting ready to fuck you over as soon as I'm out of here."

Nate shook his head. "You wouldn't do that; you're a man of honor." His jaw clenched stubbornly, brooking no argument.

Huh. That wasn't something he heard every day. 

Brad regarded him. "How do you know?"

"Some things you just know." Nate's voice dropped on the last part, his expression intense, too much. Brad felt something hot in his gut and behind his eyes. Fuck. _Fuck_. Stopping fucking _sucked_. 

He looked down so Nate couldn't see it.

"Thank you, Brad," Nate said, a note of finality to it, hard to hear. This would be the 'nice knowing ya' speech, then.

Sucked so hard. 

"Don't get used to it; you're my noble gesture for the year," Brad said.

Nate laughed. Then he held out his hand. 

Brad took it. "I'm glad you got shoved off on us pussy liberal elitists," Nate murmured. He held on a little too long. Brad didn't pull away.

Eventually, they had to let go. The look in Nate's eyes...Brad didn't even know how to approach that.

"Wasn't all bad," he conceded.

"I do believe hell has just frozen over," Nate joked. Tried to joke. It was a little strained. They were both grasping at something here, unsure of their footing, trying to navigate whatever this was.

Brad fell back on sarcasm. "My reputation will never recover."

Nate flashed a slow smile. "I'm sure you'll make do."

Brad was absurdly pleased at the solid faith in Nate's voice. Jesus, what the fuck was going on here?

Nate dug around in his pocket and produced a business card. He looked up and then grabbed the pen Brad kept secured to his notepad. 

"Oooh, digits?" Brad asked, reaching for levity. 

Nate smiled that smile again—far too fucking pretty to live unharassed in this world—and handed back the pen, with the card. "If you're ever in Maryland, you should call," Nate said.

Brad met his gaze, read the offer plain as day. And that was—way too fucking tempting.

"I just might," he said without thinking. 

"Lookin' forward to it." With another smile Nate was off, head bobbing as his sprawling gait took him further away. He turned and caught Brad watching. "And Brad. Dill says 'stay frosty.'" Nate grinned, all bright warm welcome, and then ducked around the corner, lost to sight. 

Brad swallowed thickly. He flipped over the business card to see what Nate had written. His cell number and after it, a series of dots and dashes that his brain translated before he'd even recognized it as Morse code: SF. _Semper Fi_.

***

Brad pulled out his iPhone and wrote a peremptory e-mail to Steve:

> Brad Colbert [colbertb@washpost.com]  
>  To: Steve Walters [walterss@washpost.com]  
>  Date: Fri, Aug 29, 2008 at 12:10 PM  
>  Subject: Travel
> 
> Going to Maryland about a guy.

 

> Steve Walters [walterss@washpost.com]  
>  To: Brad Colbert [colbertb@washpost.com]  
>  Date: Fri, Aug 29, 2008 at 12:16 PM  
>  Subject: Re: Travel
> 
> Save your friggin' receipts.

   
Brad snorted under his breath. He could imagine what that message had looked like before Steve remembered the _Post_ 's sensitivity training and reminder that they monitored all e-mail communications. He missed the days of the profanity-laced invective Steve used to send him. They were such fun to read. And also a great barometer of how worked up Steve was. Alas.

He pocketed the iPhone and continued on his way. That was tacit approval, after all. Brad bitched about things like getting sent to the Convention...but really, he was perfectly content with the way Steve treated him. Once you'd been the United States Marine Corps' bitch, well, pretty much everything else paled in comparison. Besides, Brad was on the short list for the Pulitzer; that bought him a long leash. 

He idly wondered what kind of leeway a Nobel Peace Prize would get him. If Al Gore could win a fucking Nobel, Brad could easily swing one of those. But it was only worth the effort if it meant he never had to see his bosses ever again.

Or save his fucking receipts.

***

Brad spent the weekend researching everything Nate Fick, from his wife's tragic death to his hiring as Assistant U.S. Attorney for Maryland's Northern Division. Brad read about the Harvard honors, Afghanistan, the Dartmouth US National Cycling Championship. Then he pushed past that, deeper. For a Gen Xer, Nate had a surprisingly small digital footprint. Brad couldn't even find any early crappy websites. Nada on social networks. Either he was technologically incompetent or they'd already scrubbed his online presence. 

Or he'd always been just that ambitious. 

Hell, his dead wife had more of an online presence than he did...and that was wrong on so many levels. Brad still looked through the Facebook page. He found their wedding pictures—a younger Nate, all green-eyed and grinning and _so_ fucking pretty. Comments led him to Nate's sisters' Facebook pages and a few pictures of Nate in corners and tucked in the back of crowds, like a ghost that wandered by every year or so.

Brad was undeterred. He sifted through Nate's case history. Cross-referencing brought up a court reporter/stenographer blog entry about a defendant attacking AUSA Nathaniel Fick in the midst of trial. Nate promptly put him on the ground. He brushed off any acclaim—all in a day's work. The court reporter captured the whole thing on his recorder and blubbered about it in the blog. 

Fucking civilians.

Still. Brad would be getting a copy of _that_ tape.

Brad gleefully logged onto PACER and loaded as many of Nate's court transcripts as he could. At $.08 a page it was fucking extortion, and normally Brad would've simply hacked the system, but it was so much more satisfying to charge it to Steve's credit card. 

Of course, given that it was the fucking government, court transcripts were three months behind. And that was in addition to the 90-day waiting period before they were uploaded to the system.

He'd have to present himself in person at the Clerk's Office. And because it was the fucking government, it was only open from 9 to 4. Christ on a motherfucking cross, what did these people do with the 18 hours a day they _didn't work_? 

He could track down the court reporters and encourage them to finish their work faster. But Steve would probably get pissed considering that one time with the restraining order and all. If it turned into a goatfuck Brad would probably have to fill out more paperwork. Or, holy God, he'd have to talk to HR again. 

Fuck _that_. The courthouse it was.

***

It was shockingly easy to charm the clerk. She must be bored...not that he cared as long as he got what he wanted. Also, it really did prove Brad's point that bureaucracy was utterly pointless at doing anything except fucking shit up. Because if you knew someone then things just magically unfucked themselves. Go figure.

But his new BFF gave him access to the recordings of the proceedings, so he couldn't be too bitter. He listened to Nate getting attacked over and over again. If there were a way to encase an audio file in newsprint, he would excerpt that shit like no one's business. It was all muffled shouting and cries of pain for the four seconds it took Nate to take him down.

Honestly, who attacked a former Marine?

Well, criminal. Obviously not the brightest crayon in the box.

But the shocked and impressed gasps of the rest of the courtroom were things to hear. Brad wished video cameras were allowed; he would've paid to see this shit. And he wouldn't even use Steve's credit card, either. 

***

Brad waited until just before the print deadline to contact the Maryland Governor's office. The spluttering of his Press Secretary warmed the cold cockles of Brad's heart. It turned out that Brad was fucking with their timeline. 

He felt just terrible about it, too.

The story made the front page. Steve hadn't even demanded any retarded changes this time. By the afternoon, all the national papers had jumped on it. While the other papers used some boring official portrait of Nate—the staged nature of the photo made it somehow uninteresting, a credit to that photographer's skill—the _Post_ had gone with one of the shots from the inauguration, Nate and Jackie waving the little American flag. 

Newbie AP kid was gonna shit bricks.

The shot was dynamic, lights and crowd giving the picture energy the same way the staid pose sucked it out of Nate's portrait. It revealed the life inside the man...and damn, if Brad didn't want to sink into him and experience it some more.

But right. Not going there. Because he'd stopped. 

***

> From: Ray Person [youknowyouloverayray@gmail.com]  
>  To: Brad Colbert [colbertb@washpost.com]  
>  Date: Wed, Sep 3, 2008 at 9:08 AM  
>  Subject: dude
> 
> so, like, did you have to jack fick off over every print version that went out or what?

 

> From: Ray Person [youknowyouloverayray@gmail.com]  
>  To: Brad Colbert [colbertb@washpost.com]  
>  Date: Wed, Sep 3, 2008 at 9:10 AM  
>  Subject: Re: dude
> 
> holy fucking cocksucker lips, batman. just saw that picture. 'course you find a marine prettier than fruity rudy. daddy gots to get some.

 

> From: Evan Wright [evanwright@gmail.com]  
>  To: Brad Colbert [colbertb@washpost.com]  
>  Date: Wed, Sep 3, 2008 at 10:48 AM  
>  Subject: Wow
> 
> Did you find a human being you actually like?

 

> From: Tony Espera [aespera@gmail.com]  
>  To: Brad Colbert [colbertb@washpost.com]  
>  Date: Wed, Sep 3, 2008 at 12:28 PM  
>  Subject: Now I've seen everything
> 
> Never thought I'd see the Iceman textually suck off a politician, dog. Send me an invite to the commitment ceremony; I'll dust off my dress blues and let all the fucking WASPs coo over the cholo protecting their freedoms. I'm sure you'll have a beautiful, hippie-liberal life together, raising lots of skinny African babies because you're white motherfuckers and God forbid you pick out an orphan from your own backyard. Nah, gotta go to Africa—the more miles you clock the more humanitarian you are; I feel you. Give Nate a kiss for me. But not like that because Gabi would de-ball me and then kill me. Fuck the hajis and The Man; she could school all them motherfuckers in spreading terror, damn.

 

> From: Moira Colbert [theladycolbert@gmail.com]  
>  To: Brad Colbert [colbertb@washpost.com]  
>  Date: Wed, Sep 3, 2008 at 1:03 PM  
>  Subject: Proud of you
> 
> My Dearest Son,
> 
> Congratulations on once again making the front page. I noticed a curious lack of contemptuous adjectives in your article. Did you make a new friend?
> 
> Mom

 

> From: Ray Person [youknowyouloverayray@gmail.com]  
>  To: Brad Colbert [colbertb@washpost.com]  
>  Date: Wed, Sep 3, 2008 at 2:14 PM  
>  Subject: Re: dude
> 
> ignoring my emails? why you gotta do that to your ray-ray? 
> 
> fine, I take back everything I ever said about dicksmokers. except that thing about captain america. can't help it if I speak the truth.

   
***

Brad resettled his bag on his shoulder and stepped out of the courthouse into the afternoon heat. He slipped on his sunglasses as he eyed the crowd of reporters shouting questions. The hell?

Two crowds, he corrected himself: one surrounding a woman and the other a very familiar little girl.

Fuck.

In his mind, Brad pictured exactly what happened. Victoria was distracted by something, maybe her phone. She'd slowed to dig it out of her purse, not noticing the reporters. And Jackie had gone merrily on her way, focused on the sucker she had in hand.

Brad looked around, but no one was fucking helping; hell, people were gawking and filming it with their cell phone cameras.

Fucking media culture.

Brad made a split-second decision and moved. He approached laterally in a few long strides. The photographers weren't paying him any mind, so it was simple to shove his way in between the back two. Their shouts of, "Hey!" and "Watch it!" got the others to turn, which created a natural gap. Brad took advantage and slipped through.

He smiled down at Jackie and scooped her up. "Time to go, Miss Fick."

It was a little concerning that she didn't resist; Brad hoped it was because she recognized him and not a lack of stranger training. He ignored the confused squawking of the reporters and settled her on one hip.

"Brad," Jackie said around her sucker.

"Good memory." Brad pushed through the crowd to where Victoria was looking half-panicked at the sight of Jackie in some man's arms. Their eyes met; recognition flooded her expression, quickly followed by relief. He shoved a couple more guys aside and took Victoria's elbow with his free hand. "Victoria, shall we? I do believe the hospitality is somewhat lacking."

She nodded vigorously and latched onto his arm with an iron grip. The pathetic excuses for journalists got out of his way, either his expression or reputation speaking for his lack of patience with bullshit. 

Brad kept Victoria close, just in case. He didn't look back to see if they had a crowd following them; he didn't need to. He could hear them.

"They're taking pictures," Jackie said. "Say cheese?"

"No, you don't have to," Victoria said. _This_ was the conversation they were having? Really?

"Keys," Brad said shortly. 

Victoria's stride hesitated. She fumbled in her purse and came up with a set of keys. "Um, it's the green suburban."

Of course it was. Brad took the keys and handed Jackie to her. "Get in the back seat. I'm driving."

Apparently short, clipped orders were as effective on stunned soccer moms as they were on the battlefield, because she did what he said. Brad hopped in the driver's side, clocking the pack of photographers that were still taking shots. He didn't waste any time in starting the car and taking off. 

Belts clicked behind him—habit was a powerful thing.

Victoria breathed out in relief. "That was insane."

"Why were you even at the courthouse?" Brad asked. Smart money would've stayed home. Or gone anywhere else.

"I didn't think it'd be that—" She paused and folded her arms around herself. "Nate was making his closing statement. The judge cleared the court because of all the press."

"Daddy puts bad men in jail," Jackie informed him.

Brad snorted. "And helps old women across the street, rescues abandoned puppies, and probably works on cold fusion in his spare time."

"Puppy?" Jackie asked hopefully.

"No, Brad wasn't serious, sweetheart. That was a joke."

"But not an inaccurate one," Brad said primly. 

Her voice was amused: "I'd expect more admiration given that article."

Brad tsked. "Newspaper readers are so jaded. If you don't eviscerate someone, then you've got your tongue up his—" Brad reconsidered that line of conversation. "I just give the facts."

"Of course." Okay, people could stop mocking him any time now.

"This is yucky," Jackie said. Brad glanced in the rearview mirror and saw her holding out her sucker. Victoria took it. Jackie kept talking: "Why's Brad driving? Are we picking up Drew and Sandy? Can we get ice cream?"

Victoria made a startled sound. "Oh...fudge. We need to pick up Drew and Sandy." She met Brad's eyes in the rearview mirror. "I'm sorry, I'm not used to—"

"The slobbering, rabid pack of jackals that pass for journalists? No loss there."

She smiled, sheepish. "Thank you for the rescue, Brad. Really." Then she hesitated. "Umm, would you mind—"

Brad checked behind them again; no one seemed to be following them. For the moment. "Just point me in the right direction." He was perfectly content to play chauffeur. To Nate's daughter. Which implied that Nate would soon make an appearance.

This was so not good.

"Ice cream?" Jackie asked again, still hopeful.

***

Nate flung open the front door; Brad heard him even over the sound of Jackie playing and the TV. "Vicky?" Nate called, shutting the door behind him.

"Everyone's fine," she called back, standing up from her perch on the sofa and moving out to the entryway. Then their voices lowered and Brad refocused on Jackie, building a Lego fortress smack on top of Sleeping Beauty's face.

Brad approved of Nate's offspring. 

Victoria popped her head back into the living room, apparently done updating Nate. "Bye, Jackie. I'll see you tomorrow. And thanks again, Brad."

Brad nodded and Jackie waved, but then caught sight of Nate. She hopped up, double-time.

"Daddy, I'm a princess," Jackie said, rushing over to him to show off her crown. The royal aura was slightly diminished by the stripe of chocolate ice cream smeared on her chin.

Ray would probably approve of Nate's offspring, too.

Nate dropped to his knees and pulled her into his arms. He kissed the top of her head and held her close. "You sure are," he said, going for levity and mostly failing.

"You're on the TV. Brad says it's 'cause you're hot. You don't feel hot," she said, kind of patting his forehead, an imperfect emulation of checking someone's temperature.

Nate laughed a little brokenly.

"And you're shivering. If you're hot and you're shivering, does that mean you're sick? Do you have to go to the doctor? If you go to the doctor, do I get a sucker? I didn't like the sucker today."

Nate cleared his throat and pulled himself away from his child, an indulgent smile in place. "I'm just fine." He looked up and focused on Brad, something fierce in eyes. "I see Brad's a princess, too."

Oh. That. He probably should've taken off the modified crown made from two of the necklaces, since Jackie hadn't wanted to be alone in her royalty. Well, the ship had sailed, nothing for it now.

"No. I'm a pretty, pretty princess," Brad corrected.

Nate nodded, considering him solemnly. "Tell me, your highness: sausage or pepperoni?" 

***

Brad shouldn't have stayed for pizza. He'd tried to extricate himself, but Nate had been insistent and Jackie had distracted both of them. And then he'd lingered—for more than just Nate's excellent beer selection—but with Nate putting Jackie to bed, it was really past time he removed himself. Long past time. Dammit.

Nate's voice stopped him just shy of the door. "I thought sneaking out was for the morning after." Sweet baby Jesus, did he _have_ to tempt Brad like that?

Brad turned his head and met Nate's look squarely. "I defy convention."

"Truer words." Nate approached slowly, feet bare. Something about it rooted Brad to the spot. "I read the article. After fielding the panicked calls last night, I hardly expected something so complimentary." 

Brad turned to face him, shrugging. "It was just the facts."

A smile tugged at Nate's lips. "It was the facts elegantly strung together and tied in a bow. Don't tell me you weren't trying to paint a picture."

"More like you hide your puppy-killing really well."

"Harvard teaches a class on that," Nate shot back. Then he sobered, stepping closer. Brad could touch, if he reached out. "But it does beg the question: why were you at the courthouse _today_?" 

"Got a tip the Governor decided to appoint an honest man to restore the reputation of the great state of Maryland."

"You were stalking me," Nate said fondly.

"I'm an investigative journalist; I investigate."

"Yes, I can see how your presence would be required _after_ you finished the story."

"It is when the government's retarded and requires it to pull recent transcripts," Brad said, somewhat bitter about that.

Nate eyed him for a moment, doing that Mona Lisa smile thing again. "You pulled the court records of the cases I've prosecuted? Writing another story?"

"Just following up on the fallout from my last one. Being thorough and all. Especially since Randall's replacement will be headline news no matter who he is." That wasn't defensive at all. Because Brad had no reason to be defensive.

"I doubt that; there are a couple more pressing things going on."

Brad looked at him askance. "Please. This is about bribery and baseball and drugs, so it's sexy. Which is why they go to the State's Attorney's office, because who better to replace a man on his way to jail, than one who puts men in jail?"

"How about there's no one else?"

Brad scoffed. Was he at _all_ familiar with American politics? 

"Brad." The stern note of Nate's voice demanded attention. Apparently Brad was powerless against it; that didn't bode well. "Thank you," Nate said, solemn as a vow.

Brad frowned at him, wondering at the seriousness, but murmured "you're welcome" just the same. He didn't know what Nate wanted from him here. It wasn't—

Nate stepped in, closed that last bit of distance, and Brad didn't back away because Brad never backed away, but what—

Nate's mouth on his was unexpected. Brad knew he gave away his surprise with the soft sound, but he couldn't seem to hold it back, not with Nate kissing him so carefully, not tentative, just...measuring.

A breath, heads angled slightly more, and they kissed harder, mouths opening, hands finding clothes and gripping. Nate's fingers dug into his shoulders, demanding, and heat curled through Brad at the obvious strength. The slick slide of Nate's tongue woke up every nerve ending in his body, all clamoring for more. The sound Brad made this time wasn't anything like surprise. Not even close. Nate's answering moan sent heat sweeping through him.

He bit Nate's lip, once, registered his gasp, then got a hand on Nate's chest and _shoved_ him back.

Nate stumbled back a few steps—eyes wide, lips puffy, mussed clothing making him the ultimate fuck-me-now porn invite.

Jesus fucking Christ, nobility sucked donkey balls.

"I don't want that kind of gratitude," Brad said roughly.

Nate licked his lips, damn him, then shook his head. "You think I—" he seemed to stumble over what word to use, "—want you because I'm _grateful_?"

"No," Brad said, putting as much finality into it as he could. Because he'd thought about this, dammit. Of the two of them, _he_ had. And not just with his dick.

"Then what's—"

"This isn't what you want."

"Gonna tell me what I want, Brad?" Nate asked, stepping closer. He was trying to bait Brad and it wouldn't work; Brad had sober reality on his side. 

"I'll do one better: I'll tell you why. Because this," he gestured between them. "This will actively destroy what you want. Perfectly positioned, every detail polished just right—a war hero who went to Harvard and instead of taking a swanky position with some hedge fund, you came back to your home state to put bad men in jail. And you look the way you do and speak the way you do and manage to make even court transcripts engaging."

"I look the way I do?" Nate asked keenly. He took another step forward, eyes flicking from Brad's eyes to his mouth and back again. 

"Are you hearing me? You're gonna be under a microscope now. You're a veteran, a single father, and you're replacing the guy who shook America's faith in baseball and the clusterfuck that is DC."

A little smile curled on Nate's lips. "Did you really tell Jackie I was on TV because I was hot?"

Brad ignored the goad to make his point: "They will be actively searching for shit on you."

Nate nodded, magnanimous. "And I wish them luck with that."

Why was Nate making this difficult? It wasn't complicated. 

"You're so clean you squeak," Brad admitted. They both knew it, but it only reinforced Brad's point. "So it's not exactly Ivy League brilliant to have an illicit affair with a reporter, much less the one who broke the story about the Congressman you'll be replacing."

"Wasn't planning on having an illicit affair," Nate murmured, eyes dropping to Brad's mouth again. 

Brad flushed with an undeniable surge of want. But he knew better, dammit. Hope was for suckers and happy endings didn't exist. Outside of certain massage parlors, anyway. "That's even worse." 

"All this talk of what _I_ want. Funny, I don't hear you protesting that you don't want me."

Brad snorted. Yeah, that'd be the day. 

He sobered again, just as quickly. It was a nice fantasy, to think want was all that mattered, but he'd outgrown those long ago.

"And what happens when your constituents find out you like taking it up the ass?" Nate stilled. A muscle in his jaw flexed. Oh, and Brad hadn't even gotten _started_. "You were married, so now it looks like you're choosing cock over pussy. You really want to blow your whole political career before it gets started?"

"People are smarter than that, Brad." Nate's voice was very steady and very hard. 

"Maybe—and I do mean _maybe_ —you could convince the liberal haven of Maryland that it doesn't matter. But what about when you want to run for President?"

Nate raised an eyebrow at the leap. "What makes you think I want that?"

Brad shook his head, made a frustrated gesture. He was not a fucking moron, thank you very much. "Please. An Ivy League-educated war hero who goes to work in the State's Attorney's office. You've probably already chosen your Presidential campaign slogan."

"You don't know as much as you think you do," Nate said, steady and composed. It looked like he got calmer when things got hairy. That would serve him well in politics. 

But Brad didn't get distracted from the point: "Are you ready to have people question if you ever fucked your wife or if your daughter was made in a test tube?"

Nate blinked at him, like he hadn't expected that. Hell, that was mild.

"No," Nate said shortly.

Gotcha.

Brad nodded once. That was that then. At least Nate finally saw reason. 

He just ignored the way his gut kind of hollowed. It was for the best. Idealists could only look forward to disappointment. And it'd be a terrible thing to watch Nate's ideals die a slow death.

Why was Nate still looking at him like that?

He stepped forward into Brad's space again. "But then, I wasn't planning to run for President for a while." He pressed his fingers into the cleft of Brad's chin, which was—that was—"I'm sure by the time I am ready, I'll have advisors who'll know all the many and varied ways to manipulate the media." His voice was low and close and he smelled good and _fuck_.

God save him from fucking idealists who thought they could change the way the world worked.

Nate closed the last distance and pressed up against him. He still had a hold on Brad's chin, still looked him straight in the eyes. "Stay," he murmured, breath puffing against Brad's lips. 

Like he could resist that.

Brad gave up trying, letting himself off the hook for once. He could have this. He _wanted_ this, too much to walk away, even if it was just the one night. Maybe that made him weak, but basking in Nate's heat, all his attention on Brad—that had to be better than nothing. Than fucking _nobility_. 

Brad surrendered and brought their mouths back together. He meant it to be short, but Nate's hand slid to the back of Brad's neck and held him there, licking into his mouth to suck on his tongue. Nate lengthened the kiss into something hot and involved and dirty as sin. Brad's fingers tingled. He wanted to drop to his knees. 

Instead he turned and pressed Nate back against the front door. Brad held him steady while he bit at Nate's mouth, felt Nate gasp and shift against him, heat swamping both. Brad rubbed up against Nate until there was more gasping into each other's mouths than actual kissing. His cock was hard, pressed to Nate's hip, and he'd be more than happy to fuck him here, but...other concerns and all.

"Bedroom," Brad said into Nate's mouth, shifting so their cocks slid against each other. They both sucked in air at the feeling.

"Uh-huh," Nate agreed. "Um, to the right." Like he needed a moment to remember, himself. 

Brad grinned. He shuffled Nate in that direction, biting at his jaw and resisting Nate's wandering hands. Those hands seemed intent on wandering right into his pants. Brad didn't mind, but he was pretty sure Nate would if his kid woke up to them fucking in the middle of the hall.

Finally they stumbled into a bedroom—looked like Nate's, excellent—and Brad shut and locked the door. Thank _Christ_. He started shucking clothes: shoes, socks, shirt...

Nate just kind of blinked at him, unmoving. 

Brad raised an eyebrow and stopped as he got to his briefs. He did actually want to fuck Nate, so if a freak-out was imminent...

"Why'd you stop?" Nate asked gruffly, pulling his eyes away from Brad's abs and looking up at him.

"Someone's not responding in kind." Brad gestured up and down Nate's frame to make the point.

Nate looked down at himself, like he'd forgotten he had all his clothes on. "Oh," he said obviously. Then proceeded to strip, movements efficient and without hesitation, revealing lots of pale, flushed, freckled skin.

...right. Brad could see how Nate had gotten distracted. Skin was...distracting.

Brad shook himself and pushed off his briefs. It took mere steps to get to Nate, to grab the back of his neck and fuse their mouths together. He lightly shoved Nate onto the bed, sprawled out, close enough to naked for Brad's tastes. Brad crawled on top of him and started licking a path from his chest to his mouth, following the flush in his skin.

"Fuck, Brad." Nate sounded horny and helpless and Brad wanted to hear him moan his name in that voice.

Brad bypassed his neck and went for his mouth, sweeping his tongue along Nate's bottom lip and then plunging inside. 

Nate made a wanting sound around Brad's tongue. He rubbed his cock up against Brad, hard through his boxer-briefs. Brad caught himself before his mind fogged over with lust. 

Right. Time to bring this one home.

He stretched out on top of Nate, careful not to crush him but letting him feel the weight. Feel that it was not some hundred-pound girl here. Brad thrust his tongue into Nate's mouth, rhythm unmistakable, nothing Nate wouldn't understand. _This_ was what it meant to fuck around with Brad. You got pressed back and _taken_.

Nate arched into him. He somehow managed to wind his limbs around Brad and try to pull him even closer, fingers digging into his sides. No, Nate had no problem with another man on top of him, or Brad on top of him anyway, and seemed more intent on getting off than ever. He sucked on Brad's tongue, rolled his hips up, took everything he gave him and demanded more.

Brad...hadn't expected that.

The world spun; Brad suddenly found himself on his back, Nate's teeth glinting in the low light as he smiled down at him. "Gotcha," he mumbled and then kissed him, thorough and filthy.

Nate released his mouth and Brad panted for a moment. Nope, oxygen wasn't helping. "And that was..." he prompted. 

"You were trying to prove a point." Nate nipped at his chin, almost scolding.

Brad eyed him, half challenging. "Unlike you."

Nate smiled, all innocence. "On the contrary. I just lull people into underestimating me. It's part of my charm."

"People find it charming that you cozy up to them and then attack without warning?"

Nate thrust against him, the friction of his boxer-briefs against Brad's cock almost unbearable. Brad groaned low in his throat. "Don't hear much complaining at the moment," Nate rumbled. He thrust again, the most blissed-out expression on his face. 

Then he stopped moving entirely. 

Brad whined—goddamn fucking _whined_ and tried to get more, hands grasping at slick skin—but Nate was implacable. Stubborn. Should have fucking known. "Brad. I'm up for whatever. But I won't flip out and I'm no passive piece of ass, you got it?"

Brad sucked in air and faced Nate squarely. "Roger that."

"Good." Nate's muscles relaxed and he slid his body against Brad's, stoking the heat up a notch. "Does that mean you'll stop teasing and we can fuck already?"

Brad huffed out a laugh. He pushed up and took Nate's mouth, molding his fingers over Nate's cock and feeling him suck in a hitched breath. Brad tugged at the boxer-briefs as Nate shifted and growled and was no kind of help whatsoever. Finally he just shoved Nate back and pulled the damn things off.

Nate tried to crawl back on top of him, but Brad wasn't having that at all—

Then it was half-grappling and half-humping, each of them trying for the upper hand. Brad had the height and weight, but fuck if Nate wasn't slippery. And strong. Brad could feel the bruises forming already.

He grinned when he finally pinned Nate. Then he sucked at one of Nate's pink little nipples and Nate jerked underneath him, made the most intriguing choked-off gasp, and tried to grind up against Brad.

Brad laughed against his chest, making sure the air blew across his nipple, then moved to the other side. Nate's response was no less encouraging. 

"God, Brad, please. _Please_ ," he gasped, tugging at Brad's hair. 

Brad moaned against Nate's chest and relaxed his hold. He expected to end up on his back again, but Nate just parted his legs wider and wrapped them around Brad's body, encouraging the rocking that pressed their cocks against each other. Nate's hands gripped Brad's shoulders—more bruises—and his gasps sounded loud in the silence of the room.

Brad cut off the sound with his mouth. He braced himself and thrust against Nate, wringing a full-body shudder out of him and sending heat racing down his own spine. Fuck, this wasn't going to take long. Brad pulled back to watch as he did it again, set up a rhythm. Nate's eyes glittered in the low light, mouth red and open, completely unselfconscious in his pleasure.

The most fucking gorgeous thing Brad had ever seen.

He must have said so aloud because Nate's look sharpened and he gasped Brad's name before Brad took his mouth again. Short, stabbing kisses and long, rolling thrusts had Nate shaking underneath him. Brad wasn't too far behind, clumsy with lust, body operating on muscle memory and instinct. 

"Come for me," he growled against Nate's mouth. And Nate did just that, his body stilling as he came slick and hot between them, stuttering out Brad's name. Brad shoved his tongue in Nate's mouth, moaning and right there, almost—

Slick, hot fingers encircled his balls, pressed just behind—

Brad choked on air. Coming was expected-but-not, searing pleasure into his brain as his body pulsed and shook. Vision blanked, white noise in his ears—like sensory deprivation, but he could feel Nate's hand all right, urging his orgasm on and _on_. 

After, Brad flopped down by Nate's side. He admired the glow of his skin in the low light and breathed him in. The bed smelled like his cologne, almost familiar. Brad nuzzled Nate's shoulder. He was sweaty and sticky and he might never move again. 

Nate nudged him over. Brad rolled with it, flopped back, tongue feeling thick in his mouth, muscles still fluttering. Fuck...and that wasn't even close to his most brilliant work.

Nate wiped him off with something and Brad twitched and grunted. His heat settled beside Brad and yeah, fine, he could do the post-sex touching thing. For a few minutes. 

***

Brad woke with a start. The room was mostly dark and silent, save for Nate's slow breathing. The sky was just turning into that pre-dawn hazy grey; his internal clock said it'd been a few hours. 

...huh. He must instinctively trust Nate; he hadn't fallen asleep in bed with someone in...well, it'd been years.

Nate didn't seem to have that problem, spread out comfortably, master of this space, even where he and Brad touched. 

Brad lay there, watching Nate sleep. He realized it was pretty fucking gay—maybe more so than their activities last night—but he wanted to remember this later, remember the way the sheets clung to Nate's body, the way his face relaxed in sleep, totally trusting. The way the bed smelled like Nate and him and sex.

Brad spotted it when Nate's breathing changed, his eyes fluttered, all the tiny clues to his imminent awakening. When he opened his eyes and blinked fuzzily at Brad, he didn't give any signs of surprise to find him there, staring at him.

"I can practically hear you thinking," Nate mumbled.

Brad snorted. He sincerely doubted it.

Nate's lips curled and he hooked an arm around Brad, rolling over to nuzzle Brad's neck as his hand stroked all the exposed skin he could find. 

That was...way too tempting. He wanted nothing more than to stay here, luxuriate in Nate like this, drunk on the sensory overload. 

Nate hmmed against his collarbone. "What time is it?"

"Early."

"Helpful," Nate shot back, raising his head to peer at the clock. Satisfied, he rested his chin on Brad's chest and looked at him, his eyes so very green. "I'm going to shower. Pancakes sound good?"

Jesus, like this was any old day.

Brad ignored the leap of want in his gut at that thought.

"I'm easy," Brad said. 

Nate smirked. "Less so than you think." He bit Brad's chest playfully, then got up and headed toward the bathroom.

Brad closed his eyes. The sight of that ass was...not helping.

He stayed there until the beat of the shower spray pulsed and shifted with Nate's movements. Then he threw on his clothes, padded out to the living room and grabbed his bag. He hesitated at the last, but the sound of the water shutting off gave him no choice. 

He left the framed picture on Nate's pillow. It was a different shot than the one in the paper—Jackie with her cheek on Nate's shoulder, both of them smiling—but no less dynamic. He'd meant to give it to him last night, before they'd been...distracted. But what the hell. It was better than any pathetic, trite note he could write. 

He snuck out the back—and yeah, he was proving the truth of Nate's words...but there was no way it could end well, so he might as well just end it. Brad crossed through several neighbors' backyards before cutting out to the street. He spied the news vans set up in front of Nate's house and rolled his eyes.

Fucking reporters.

***

Brad raised his eyebrow at the confident knock at his door—three raps, no hesitation. He wasn't expecting anyone. And his scoop had bought him at least another week before Steve hunted him down...

Please let it be someone selling something. Brad could really use a target for the aggression of two solid weeks of his world revolving around Nate Fick...at a distance.

Brad blinked at the sight of Nate standing on his doorstep, hands in his pockets, no tension anywhere that Brad could see.

"Hi." Nate inclined his head in greeting, smirking at Brad's expression. Then he pushed his way in the door.

Brad stuck his head out and scoped the scene, just in case. Fuck, it was DC; you could never be too careful.

Satisfied, he shut the door and turned back to Nate—

Just in time to get shoved back, Nate's mouth on his, forceful. Brad's mouth opened of its own volition. He groaned as Nate aggressively tongue-fucked his mouth, hands still gripped in his shirt and holding him in place. Nate crowded close, pressing his body to Brad's—the heat of him and the smell of him calling up everything he'd shoved aside, bringing Brad right back to Nate's bed. Lust arced through him.

Brad shoved Nate back. Jesus, why was he always doing that?

Nate caught himself with a little hop, then licked his lips and smirked again. "Yeah, I thought so."

_Christ_.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" Anyone else would have flinched at Brad's tone. 

Nate merely quirked his mouth at him. "Reminding myself of your charm," he said, dry, eyeing the apartment in undisguised interest. "Lived here long?" he asked. 

What, they were gonna swap interior decorating tips?

"Nate. What the fuck are you doing here?" Brad asked again, hearing the desperate note in his voice. Fuck. That wasn't a good sign.

Nate's eyes went flinty. "You left," he accused. Any other situation, he'd swear that was hurt in Nate's expression. Behind the dark flare of anger. 

"To make things easier for you; you're kind of undermining my noble gesture."

"I don't want nobility; I just want you."

Brad's breath hitched at the shock of it, so boldly stated, and at the fact that it reverberated somewhere deep in his gut. "Christ. Who says stuff like—"

Nate cut him off. "You were fine one minute and then you were gone. What the fuck, Brad?" 

Didn't he know? Didn't he get it? "The retard questions really don't suit you."

Nate's frustrated noise was depressingly hot. "You know, the self-sacrificial thing might work in movies, but in the real world it's really fucking irritating."

"Gee, so sorry to be considering your career in all this. I figured one of us should."

Nate took a calming breath and stepped in close. When he spoke his tone was gentle, expression wide open for Brad to read. "Brad, too many people around me have died. I've lost my wife and more than my fair share of friends. What the fuck makes you think my _career_ would be my number one priority?"

Brad brooded silently on that, hating how it made him want Nate even more. Even so, he knew it wasn't real. No matter what words came out of his mouth, it just wasn't realistic.

Nate waited for a moment. Then he shook his head. "And they say silence is golden." He paused and looked away, biting his bottom lip. Then he shook it off and faced Brad again. "Look, it's one thing if you just wanted one night. I didn't think so, but I could be wrong." Christ—this was DC; _no one_ was this honest. No one opened themselves up like this. 

And Nate _kept on going_. "And if that's the case, then fine. I accept it. But if you're doing this for _me_ , well then fuck you, Brad Colbert. I don't need you to save me."

Brad considered him, unblinking, not quite _believing_. "Either you'll be the greatest politician the world has ever known or the worst. I can't decide which."

"I'll...take that as a compliment."

Brad inclined his head, granted him that.

It was silent for a beat, almost bordering on awkward.

"So?" Nate finally asked. Brad could see the wary hope behind it; he marveled at the kind of foolish bravery it took to put yourself out there like that. This man was going to cause him endless grief, he could already tell.

Granted, the fact that he was picturing a future for them pretty much answered Nate's question.

"I am so thoroughly fucked," Brad said.

Nate smiled, slow and sharp, something like victory in his eyes. "Not yet, but it's still early and I've got nowhere to be."

He moved into Brad again. This time the kiss started slow, a press of mouths, a flick of Nate's tongue. It built, heat igniting between them, relentless, all-encompassing. It felt like a fucking brand and Nate hadn't done anything more than press their mouths together. Except he had. Far more.

So _very_ fucked. But, well. Might as well go with it.

Brad groaned and sucked on Nate's tongue. He pulled Nate close, instincts kicking in, recognizing Nate's scent and equating that with sex. Fuck, he could probably get off just grinding into Nate while propped against this goddamn door.

Brad palmed Nate's jaw, feeling the shape of it as his mouth moved. He tapped to get Nate's attention. 

Nate pulled away entirely—mouth, hands, body—a cold chasm opening between them. His expression, though, that was pure mischief. "Race you?"

He took off without waiting for Brad's answer.

***

"More," Nate demanded, shoving himself back against Brad's two fingers, impatient. 

"Stop being such a pushy bitch and let me fuck you how I want," Brad shot back. He twisted his fingers and tried not to think about having this tight heat gripped around his cock.

Nate shifted, transferring his weight to one forearm. His other hand found the lube, messily slicked his fingers, and latched onto the hand Brad had slowly opening him up.

No, he didn't grab Brad's hand—he found the fingers Brad had fucking him open and then added his own to the mix. He pressed his own finger inside himself, in concert with Brad's, and groaned roughly.

"I'll let you fuck me how _I_ want." 

Brad twisted to get a better look at his two fingers and Nate's one, together slowly stretching him wider. That was—that was—his mind couldn't even classify it. 

A few more thrusts and then Nate made impatient sounds again. "Now."

"Nate—"

"Jesus fucking Christ." He pushed Brad's hand away entirely, hissing as Brad's fingers slipped from his body.

Then Nate shoved his shoulder and rolled with him in a move that should've been ungainly and just ended up far too fucking composed for how his cock swayed, hard and angry red.

"For someone who wants to fuck, you're being awfully precious about it," Nate bitched, climbing on top of him and sitting on his thighs. He had a condom in hand and then open almost faster than Brad could track.

Nate rolled the condom on Brad with a practiced flick of his wrist. More lube and then he levered himself up, pressing Brad's cock to his asshole and sinking down, no hesitation.

"Fuck!" Brad's voice rang out, clear and helpless. Nate's body gripped tight around him, heat curling down his spine, making him want more, now.

He stayed still.

Nate groaned and sank down further, shifting his hips in little circles, brow furrowed in concentration. But Brad read pleasure there, too, a euphoria he tamped-down so he could achieve his goal.

"You're a fucking Marine Corps officer all right," Brad muttered. His hands went to Nate's hips, but he didn't even pretend to try and stop Nate from sliding down on Brad's cock. Or speed him up.

Nate was a fucking force of nature. Surrender was clearly the only option.

"Don't you forget it," Nate hissed, finally seating himself fully. 

He took a breath and then immediately levered himself up and dropped back down—they both gasped. Brad's hands reflexively squeezed on his hips; Nate did it again, faster. And faster still. Nate slapped a hand on Brad's chest, pinned him in place, and just rode the fuck out of Brad's cock. 

Too many sensations at once—the tight heat around his cock, the possession in Nate's slitted eyes, the sight of him fucking himself on Brad's body like that. Brad's spine tingled; he could only take gasping breaths, all his blood in his dick and...well, just in his dick. He was fucking lightheaded lying down. 

Nate shifted his angle and moaned, long and loud. "Fuck, Brad."

The sound was like the filthiest full-body caress in the history of mankind. Brad felt it everywhere, pleasure lancing straight through him.

Nate's hand started stripping his cock—using Brad's body, holding him down, jerking himself off, all while these sounds poured from his throat—curses worthy of any Marine interspersed with moans and Brad's name. 

Brad pried one hand from Nate's hip and wrapped it around Nate's hand on his cock, working him fast and hard. Nate chanted his name over and over again, half-stifled, utterly uncontrived. Nate held his gaze as he did, lips shiny and red, working around Brad's name. He came artlessly, his body gripping Brad tight, face beyond awed.

It was the most genuine orgasm Brad had witnessed in a _long_ time.

And with that, Brad's control just evaporated—one moment he had a handle on himself, the next he was rutting, beyond all sense. His orgasm sucker-punched him, wiping his mind clean save for words like 'Nate' and 'fuck, yes.' Whatever sound he made was drowned out by the buzzing in his ears. Time faltered and shifted, knocked out of linearity. Brad lost himself to it; he didn't even put up a fight.

He came to panting, Nate boneless and heavy, Brad's cock still inside him.

"Fuck," Brad muttered.

Nate hmmed his agreement and mouthed at Brad's jaw. After another beat, he shifted languidly, letting Brad get hold of the condom before pulling off him with a grunt. 

Brad took care of the condom. When he turned back Nate had slumped, the picture of indulgent abandon—skin shining and flushed, mouth puffy and used, traces of come smeared on him.

Brad wanted to crawl on top of him and start all over again. Instead he sat up—

Only to get yanked down again, Nate's grip firm on the back of his neck.

"Nate—"

Nate made a negative sound and held on.

"I'm just getting a towel. We're in my house. Where am I gonna go?" he asked reasonably.

Nate mouthed along his jaw. "I'm sure you have fallback positions set up all over the city." His voice sounded hoarse and raw. Brad's mind flashed to why—all that time spent moaning Brad's name—and right, _why_ was he arguing again? 

"Touché." He shifted them until he could pull at the covers; he wiped at both of them with the corner of the sheet. Then he shoved Nate under and followed him in.

***

This time, he wasn't surprised to wake up next to Nate. Mostly he was amazed. At Nate, the WASPy, mild-mannered sex god. 

Nate opened one eye, looked at him, and then snorted. "Yeah, that was pretty inspired."

Brad...really needed to be controlling himself right about now. 

"Aren't you glad I tracked down where you live?" Nate continued. He stretched and turned, hand sliding over Brad's back. 

Brad considered that. "How did you track down where I live?"

His fingers traced over Brad's tattoo, idle. "Remember the guy who called my phone and you picked up?"

Brad propped himself up on his forearms and stared. "You contacted my RTO to get my address so you could make a booty call?" he asked blankly.

Nate was pure innocence. "Is that what this is?"

"Fuck." He'd never hear the end of it. 

Nate snickering was a thing to see. Brad got distracted...and then it hit him that Nate was laughing _at_ him. 

"I'm totally fucking with you," Nate said. "I called Espera."

"Like that's any better," Brad groused.

"Mmmm, well, you didn't say to never pick up for him." Nate slid closer, hand now teasing at his lower back.

"You're doing what I say now? Does this extend to every area?" Brad asked, licking his lips and pulling the sheet back to survey all the skin on offer before him.

Nate grinned wickedly. "I say we test that theory."

"Extensively," Brad agreed. 

***

Fin. Feedback is adored.

**Author's Note:**

> For the curious, were a Maryland Congressman to resign, the state would hold a special primary and then a special election to fill the vacant seat. I decided to go the Governor appointment route...well, because I can. Which should impress upon everyone—once again—how very _not real_ this is.
> 
> The tidbit about an AUSA being attacked in court was inspired by an incident from Brooklyn—the court reporter did, indeed, get the whole thing on tape. The Maryland contingent did stay at the Renaissance Denver Hotel—wherever possible I tried to keep the details reasonably accurate. Finally, if you spotted _The West Wing_ references, you get a cookie.


End file.
